


The Experiment: Testing the Hypothesis

by KylaraIngress



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:32:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaraIngress/pseuds/KylaraIngress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, the title says it all. Sherlock decides to start an experiment by testing the hypotheses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Experiment: Testing the Hypothesis

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after "Hounds" but before "Reichenbach". 
> 
> I've never been a big fan of the "If it's you it's okay" excuse used in many a slash fic to 'explain away' the fact that these two canon heterosexuals are suddenly hot for each other. I feel it's an insult to the concept of gay not being a choice. I also feel it totally ignores not only the concept of bisexuality, but the theories discussed by Alfred Kinsey about how if it didn't have all the societal trappings associated with it, most of us would be somewhere closer to bisexual than strictly one or the other. But Moffat sent us along that merry path in "Scandal" with both Irene and John, and with Sherlock using John as a guinea pig in "Hounds" to figure out fear, I knew that there was a logical next step for someone so analytical. 
> 
> This may wind up being a series (I even have the idea for the next one). We'll see if Watson continues jabbering away at me. Which, as you will soon see, he tends to babble whenever Sherlock confuses or excites him (or both).

I wake up with a start, knowing without a doubt that there is someone in the room. I keep still, my left hand slowly inching toward my cane I keep as a reminder, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Despite having been asleep not two seconds ago, my mind is analyzing everything, trying to gauge the shape in the room to see how much danger I'm in and whether I'll be able to grab the cane and use it as a weapon before I'm attacked. Since moving into Baker Street, I've been in danger so many times: sometimes - like with Baskerville - from my own flatmate. So, when my eyes finally adjust and I see that it's Sherlock standing in my room, part of my mind still considers reaching for my cane. 

And then I notice that he's stark naked.

"Sherlock?"

He sits down on the edge of the bed, the weight of the world with him. 

"You okay?" I try again. I find it more than just a little disturbing that he's being so quiet. Sherlock is anything but quiet. 

Instead, he leans over, one hand on each side of my body. I instinctively tense up. While I've grown to the point where I feel I knew Sherlock fairly well, I'd be a fool if I felt I actually knew the man. Who knew what was going on in that head of his? And yet I'm still gobsmacked as he leans further in and gives me a quick peck on my cheek.

"Ummm ... thanks?" I try this time, knowing how rare Sherlock showing any kind of emotion or affection is. 

"I've been thinking," he finally says. I hold back the snarky "Never a good sign" I want to say, knowing it'd ruin whatever breakthrough he's currently experiencing. So, I instead let out an uncommitted murmur to indicate for him to go on.

"About something she said," he continues. I didn't have to ask who he was referring to. There was only one woman of interest to Sherlock: The Woman, Irene Adler. I swallow, wondering where he is going with this. 

"She said she was gay, but she was obviously interested in me ... sexually, that is." My mouth dries, knowing what's coming next. Of course I do: I was there. _I'm not actually gay,_ I hear myself saying. _Well, I am. Look at us both._ I had wondered why he hadn't mentioned that conversation yet. I guess it took him this long to process it.

He leans back over, and HOLY MARY, he's kissing me. Not on the cheek, no. Dear god, he's kissing my lips. It's sloppy but enthusiastic, making me briefly wonder whether this was the first time he had ever kissed anyone on the lips. And even worse, after the initial shock wears off, I begin kissing him back. Part of me wonders how much of it is me just helping him along, like I always do. His left hand is helping him keep his balance, but his right - oh, dear lord, his right hand is moving. Stroking my chest, it slowly moves toward my pants, and I can't do this, no matter how good it feels to have Sherlock touching me like this, how amazing, how extraordinary, how fantastic it is, he obviously is new at this, and I have to stop it, stop it right now, for both of our sakes.

Despite my inner monologue, it takes me a full half a minute still to get my arm to move and stop his from going much further. I am both sad and happy that I am able to stop him just as he starts to play with the elastic on my pyjamas, and I hear myself saying, "Sherlock, stop."

He pulls up from the kiss, that confused puppy look on his face. His deductions had told him that I'd be okay with this - hell, by this point, MY deductions would tell me I was okay with this - so why on earth am I asking him to stop?

I couldn't seem to stop myself from saying, "Why are you doing this?", knowing full well how he is going to answer. Still, I chant, _Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it._

"It's an experiment."

He said it.

I take a deep breath, knowing - as usual - that he isn't trying to be offensive with his words. He is just expressing what he can. "An experiment?" I try to sound interested. 

"When it all was over," he says, straightening up full, "at Baskerville, that is, I saw how you were capable of being used as an experiment to help me understand fear, the makings of it as well as the reactions to it. When I saw that you were comfortable continuing our affiliation after, I knew then that you would be open to me using you in an experiment to help me understand love."

I'm about to give him one of my typical lectures on how his clinical worldview was NOT appropriate, not for a situation like this, not with his mouth on mine, his hand close enough to my cock to where a slight shift would have him touching it's extended length, when his choice of words slams back into my head. _Understand love?_ Love, not sex? Sherlock is anything but ambiguous, and his word choices are always intentional. 

I have to make sure. "Understand love?"

"Well, yes," he says in his 'it must be so boring in your head' voice. "If I wanted to understand just sex, I would have asked for her help. She was willing, after all." He turns back to me. "But that is all she would have wanted to do. Now, how can I come to any sort of conclusions unless you let me collect the proper data?" And he moves his hands to my head, and ohmigod, he is kissing me again, a little less sloppy this time but still hellishly enthusiastic, a full-on wanting to push through my mouth to the pillow type of kiss, and as he's doing that, he stands up and straddles my body, and oh Christ, I can feel his naked body, his chest against mine, and while part of me is wondering about this turn of events, how it fits in with my 'have I mentioned I'm heterosexual today?' tendencies, the rest of me is saying to shut up and just enjoy the moment, because as with many a Sherlockian experiment, this one may not last, may in fact end the moment Sherlock gets bored with either me or the situation. While this is new - to both of us - he obviously knows what he is doing, and I was able to trust him when I thought I was being hunted by the hound so why not trust him when it comes to my heart? 

Decision made, I don't stop him this time as his hand snakes down my side once again, but as usual, he is anything but predictable, and his hand actually goes to mine and moves it toward his - oh sweet Jesus, I'm touching it, I'm stroking him, and he gives out a lusty moan at my touch, and my vision goes widescreen at the knowledge that I'm touching him there, making him feel pleasure. 

We are no longer kissing, our concentration too focused on other enjoyments. Our mouths are still close, though, and I can feel his breath hot on my cheek, feel the rumble of his soft moan as I stroke him again. The sensation is too much, and when his hand dances across the elastic of my pyjamas again, I close my eyes at the exquisite thrill of it all. I lean back my head and let out my own guttural moan, arching my back in a desperate attempt for more.

This apparently is exactly what Sherlock is expecting, for as I arch, he quickly de-pants me, and I gasp in excitement and delight as his fingers stroke my thighs on the way down. He leans back up and nips at my bottom lip, never quite giving me a full-on kiss, teasing my senses as he teases my shaft with his hand. 

I am at his mercy, as I always am, and my hands are now useless at my side, desperately trying to hang on to anything as I ride the waves of ecstasy filling me. It has been so long since it was anything but my own hand down there, and when he pushes forward to where our erections thrust against each other, my eyes fly open and I let out a cry, much louder than I intend. I can see the incorrigible gleam in his eye that lets me know that there is now a goal to see how loud he can make me go, how far he can bring me before I stop him. I suddenly realize that I don't know if there is a limit: hell, I've already killed for him - there's not much else I wouldn't do for him if asked. 

He gives me another hard stroke, and I hear myself chanting, "Please, Sherlock, more," in a plea that's part instruction and part need. I arch once more toward him, and am rewarded with flesh against flesh once again. 

His lips have moved to my neck, nuzzling the skin, licking and nipping in a way that tells me he intends to mark me, to mark the occasion, and I briefly worry about explaining a hickey to Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, but then they both already thought something was going on, so I may not need to after all. My train of thought is derailed, however, as his hand moves from my shaft to my balls, and his mouth clamps down on my left nipple. 

I'm close now, so close, and I realize I have been reacting this entire time. I focus on moving my hand back to him, wanting to bring him to the same level I am, and he stops his suck on my nipple to give me a devilish grin and move himself to where he ....

Words escape me as he cheekily starts giving me a blowjob that makes me think twice about the lack of his sexual activity in the past. My eyes tighten in desire, my cries of pleasure escape my clenched jaw, and I start thrusting almost instinctively, my hand grasping his hair, wanting more of the hot wetness that engulfs me. My need for more, NOW, outweighs any other thoughts, and all I can focus on is his mouth on me. 

"Close, so close," I chant, and "oh, yes, more," as he continues to suck and grope at the same time. And I cry out an unintelligible warning as I feel his finger gently caressing the underside of my cock. I'm close, his lips, his hands, I'm so close, I don't know if I can stop, and so I open my eyes and struggle out, "Sherlock, I'm coming."

He stops, gives me a devilish wink, saying, "From what I understand, that is the point," and then leans back down to fully swallow my length, and as he does so, moves his hands from my balls to my arse. 

Stars explode behind my eyes as I do the same, and all I can focus on is the wonder of coming inside of Sherlock's mouth. I never thought it was possible, not after that initial 'while I am flattered by your interest' gentle let down (tremendously gentle letdown, I realized after how I saw how he caustic he could be to others), but nevertheless, here I was, being sucked off by the world's only consulting detective, and enjoying it immensely. 

I take a breath to calm myself, and raise myself up to look at Sherlock, only to see him pull back from me, and swallow - giving me that look that shows he's analyzing and committing every detail to memory. 

"That. Was. Amazing," I pant. I take a moment, and then I have to ask: "Where in the bloody hell did you learn to do that?"

He gives me that shy grin that lets me know he appreciates the compliment, and says, "I borrowed your laptop."

I chuckle at the idea of what my browser history is going to show. As I do, though, my body can feel Sherlock's own need still jutting against me. My guilt at my selfishness perks up, and I reach toward him.

I'm thrown when he pulls slightly away, saying, "You ... you don't have to." It was the hesitancy that got me. The only time I had ever seen him unsure of himself was at Baskerville, when there were emotions involved, and I realize what he is trying to say, why he had stopped me earlier. So far, he had taken the lead on the entire exchange. I could always say I was coerced; walk away while still (somewhat) keeping my heterosexuality firmly in place. 

He was giving me an out. And with that, I decide to fully commit to this whatever-it-is, and say, "A good lover would want to give their partner pleasure in return," grabbing his cock with my right hand and pulling him down for a kiss with my left. His groan of approval vibrates through my lips, and I suddenly understand Sherlock's interest in making me want to be loud. I file that later for a further 'experiment' (not even doubting that I want a further evolution of our situation), and focus on giving Sherlock a good 'first time', even if I was wrong and this is just his first time with me. 

My left hand is still on his head, grasping his hair as I hold him in place for my kiss, while my right is stroking him rhythmically. I break away from our kiss, and can't help saying, "Besides, how can you make a full conclusion without **all** of the data?" and with that, I kiss him again, raking my fingernails down his back, and give his arse a very definite squeeze. That is apparently enough for Sherlock, as he shudders as his come splatters my chest and upper legs, and I am delighted at the incoherent babble that emerges from his mouth. I had seen Sherlock lose control of his language center just the once – with Irene – and that is sign enough to me that, while he may be calling it just an experiment, it was so much more – and if it was up to him, it would indeed last.

After Sherlock finishes, I give him another short kiss to reassure him, and then let him go while I turn around and grab something to wipe myself up with. I ponder how Sherlock will handle this aspect of sex, the messy side, but when I turn back with my pyjama bottoms and see the look of wonder on his face, I realize he is just cataloging it along with the rest of the 'evidence'. 

"That ... that was good," he says cautiously. "What you did there, with your hand ... well, your hands," he corrects himself, and I can't help my grin. 

"Just good, huh?" I say, hoping he sees that I'm trying to tease him. "Maybe I need to do more research, then, like you did – for next time."

"Next time?" he says, and the hope is so thick I can feel it in the air.

"There damn well better be a next time," I say. "After all, didn't you say you wanted to understand love, not sex?" I finish wiping myself off, and throw the now thoroughly dirty piece of clothing as far from my bed as I can. 

I turn back to him with my hands outstretched. "Now, I don't know about you, but I would like the next phase of this experiment of yours to be whether you can sleep for at least six hours in the same bed as me." And with that, I pull him down to my side, and roll over just enough to where I can feel him touching me. 

And we slowly drift off to sleep – together. 

Fini

**Author's Note:**

> This was also posted to my LiveJournal, locked to friends only for various reasons.


End file.
